


The Room

by AKMars



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:24:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKMars/pseuds/AKMars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has their secrets....Finch more than most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Room

The Room  
Finch: humor  
Rating: General

Takes place immediately following Ep. 9: Get Carter  
 **xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_Didn't know you collected dolls, Finch._

_As you know, I collect rare books Mr. Reese; 180 gram vinyl and a Xerox Alto, when I can find one....._

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

 

There were many reasons that the man now known as Harold Finch guarded his privacy. First and foremost, of course, was sustaining the fiction of his former self's death. If it ever came to light that one of the creators of 'The Machine' was in fact still alive, all the good that he and Reese had been able to do would grind to a halt.

The other reasons were varied and their relative importance to Finch changed on a daily basis to match his circumstances. Today one reason took precedence over all the others.

Their most current project, the protection of Detective Carter, had been successfully dealt with. The likelihood of another number coming up again in the next twenty-four hours was miniscule (Finch knew, he'd done the calculations). Now was his time...a brief respite from the cycle of tedium turned heart-pounding anxiety of helping the Machine's 'irrelevants' and the billionaire intended to make the most of it.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

 

The cab stopped in front of a non-descript brownstone. There was nothing to distinguish it from the drab facades of its neighbors. Finch looked just as drab himself. Before leaving the library, he'd traded his trademark suit and tie for a pair of jeans and pullover sweater; taking the time to replace his glasses with contacts (hated but necessary to maintain the attempt at disguise) and top the entire wardrobe change with a Yankees cap.

He even went so far as to track Reese's phone via GPS just to be sure his employee wasn't lurking in the vicinity. Satisfied that he was out of observation range, Finch paid off his fare and entered his least used bolt hole.

His cleaning service must have been in earlier. The rooms were fresh and the billionaire noted with satisfaction the aroma of pot roast lingering in the entranceway. The email he'd sent that morning had obviously been received and dinner was waiting for him.

Finch rid himself of the contacts first thing, sighing in relief as he donned his glasses. Leaving his loafers in the hallway, he stepped into a pair of well-worn carpet slippers and pulled a bottled water from his refrigerator. He paused, looking up the stairs in regret. One floor would take him some time to ascend; three was quite out of the question. Finch sighed and stepped into the elevator.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

To the casual observer, the brownstone's third floor appeared to be comprised of a rather palatial sized bedroom with adjoining bath and a storage cupboard. If the proportions of the rooms seemed a bit out of kilter, it could be blamed on the time period. During the 'restoration crazy' nineties, property owners had been less meticulous about maintaining authenticity in these out of the way spaces and to save money did most of the interior work themselves...needless to say few were master carpenters.

This lack of attention had suited Finch, in fact was a main point in his purchase of the property. Emerging from the elevator, he limped to the storage room door and opened it. Flicking the lightswitch, he stood for a moment staring at rolls of toilet paper, towels, buckets and the broom and vacuum contained inside. He moved to the back of the closet and pushing aside a stack of linens, popped open a hidden panel. He punched a code into the now exposed keyboard and waited as the system released the door mechanism.

Panic rooms had also been in vogue when he’d bought the house. His realtor had suggested he might want to investigate such a precaution...not that the neighborhood was bad, mind you, but just in case. Finch had, however not for the reasons the woman had supposed. He’d paid well to have the reinforced space built but he’d done the hardwiring and installation of the security systems himself (that in itself had been a soothing use of his downtime).

Stepping into the room, he waited for the door to close and lock automatically behind him. Once it had, Finch drew the first relaxed breath he had all day. _At last_....the words oozed through his thoughts with a tinge of smug satisfaction. Contrary to what a panic room normally was, this space was light and airy. Finch had not bricked up the windows facing the street, nor had the room been paneled with thick steel plates. It was not a place of protection but one of comfort. His private sanctuary.

And here, for a few stolen hours, Finch would find peace. He strolled along the floor to ceiling built in shelves, reaching out to run a finger along the silk-smooth mahogany wood; reacquainting himself with the layout of his hoard. He always stood in the center of the room for a few minutes and turned on the spot, admiring the neat rows of perfectly arranged treasures; each in its proper spot, each in the best condition he could find and each one very much loved.

Satisfied that all was as he'd left it, Finch made his way to the far corner, until he stood before the prizes of his collection...his two favorites. Unlike all others on his shelves, these most precious of all resided behind clear glass doors. Recessed lights in the top of the case illuminated them. The billionaire was content just to look at them for a long moment...the memories they represented were priceless to him.

The first he'd bought himself long ago....saving his allowance in secret for a month to be able to get it. As soon as he'd seen it on the store shelf, the boy Finch had been was captivated. He didn't think his parents ever realized where it had come from. By the time they noticed it, he already had the second of his favorites.

Finch smiled, remembering the fear that coursed through him when his father called him up to his study for 'a talk'. His father had never been able to relate to the quiet, bookish child that was his son. He had hoped that the baseball glove he'd gotten the boy for Christmas a year ago would have led to his appreciation of more 'manly' activities. Now, he knew that his son had traded that precious gift for something like this...

_"Well, let me see it......"_

_The frightened boy pulled his newest acquisition from behind his back, holding it out to his father in a hand that trembled....waiting for his punishment._

_"You traded your glove for this?"_

_The child Harold had been nodded, staring at his toes, still expecting the ax to fall._

_"Why didn't you just tell me that's what you wanted, son?"_

_The boy's head snapped up, his eyes widening in surprise at the happiness in his father's voice._

_"You're not mad?" he whispered, still unsure._

_"No. I would have gotten it for you instead." An approving pat to the head was dispensed and permission to leave granted._

_"Go on and play son, your mother will call you for dinner."_

_The boy reeled from the relief that had flooded through him as he returned to his room, his precious trade clutched tight in his hands. Everything was perfect now...right...balanced. He felt the tiniest twinge of guilt that his parent had misinterpreted why he'd wanted this particular toy. That twinge was quickly dispersed by the pleasure he experienced as he settled into the world of his imagination._

Reaching out, Finch opened the glass doors and removed his treasures with gentle fingers. An original release, 1961 Ken doll and a 1964 G.I. Joe Action Marine stared back up at him with their trademark vacant gazes. They were the first two of a collection that numbered over a hundred now.

Each of the well-dressed, placidly smiling figures standing at attention made him happy with their presence....from Malibu Ken to the 50th Anniversary edition version and every release in between.

Placing the Action Marine back on his shelf, the recluse pulled a tiny pair of wireframe spectacles from his breast pocket and fitted them on Ken's face with careful fingers. Once he was certain they would stay put, he replaced the doll on the shelf next to the soldier and closed the glass doors again.

Finch regarded his dream team with satisfaction. They looked good together, the slender brunet doll in his tuxedo and the muscled military man; side by side poised and ready for any challenge. The glasses really were a nice touch.

"I told you I collected vinyl, Mr. Reese....never said it wasn't dolls."


End file.
